


in ceremonium

by ransoned



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst, Gallows Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ransoned/pseuds/ransoned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In sickness and in health, until death do us part."</p><p>Brad goes to three weddings and a funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in ceremonium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [titaniumsporkery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/titaniumsporkery/gifts).



> I wrote & conceived this in the span of about 5 hours, so, yeah.

Poke’s wedding is the strangest thing Brad’s ever been to. It’s not the food, or the music, but the fact that Poke and Gina are already married – Brad knows, he attended their first wedding almost five years ago.

He called Poke months ago when the invitation arrived in the mail and didn’t say anything when Poke picked up the phone. Finally, Tony sighed and broke the accusing silence with a resigned _“dawg, I know.”_ Apparently, Gina’s cousin had renewed her vows while the battalion was deployed, and Gina decided her and Poke needed to have a second wedding too. He asked Brad to be one of the groomsmen.

Brad had spared Poke the lecture on the futility of the institution of marriage and laughed instead, telling him he’d see him on the big day - _again_. Gina’s marital dictatorship was probably punishment enough.

Redundant celebrations aside, Brad finds himself maybe, sort of having a good time. He doesn’t like weddings, but it’s amusing to watch the single marines hit on Gina’s nurse friends from work, or worse, Poke’s younger cousins. Kocher is enthusiastically rolling up his shirtsleeve for anyone who looks at him for more than two seconds, eager to show off the still-healing buckshot wound from taking his idiotic nephew hunting for the first time. Brad isn’t sure if Kocher’s yet made the distinction between “shit Marines find funny” and “stuff everyone else finds disturbing.”

The ceremony itself is almost painfully sweet. Poke’s little daughter Sofia stands between him and Gina, holding her parents hands, reciting the vows along with them. When the priest gives the go ahead to kiss the bride, Poke leans down to pick up Sofia, kissing her on both cheeks before kissing his wife. Brad thinks he might vomit at all the sentimentality. Marines don’t get emotional over something useless like a second wedding.

Brad’s just thankful that it’s an open bar.

Lilley’s been hovering near the buffet table like a moth to a flame since the venue doors opened. Brad makes his way over, determined to grab something before Lilley eats everything. Ray Person intercepts him instead and Brad eyes the catered Mexican food longingly.

“’Sup, Gunny Colbert?” he says with a grin.

Brad notes with some annoyance that Ray’s lost a little weight. He barely made height and weight requirements for Recon in the first place, and looks particularly bony in a white dress shirt. The buffet table seems like a good idea for both of them and Brad attempts to herd Ray towards it as they talk.

“Ray, I’m amazed. You called me Sergeant all of once in Iraq. You finally start learning your place and then decide to become a pussy civilian instead.”

Ray grins wider.

“You’re gonna miss me.”

“Like a cancerous tumour.”

Ray’s smile falters for a half second before Sofia Espera appears and begins tugging on Ray’s dress pants. Based on the pink tutu and sparkly crown, Brad assumes Poke and Gina let their little girl redress herself. Sofia screams, laughing, as Ray scoops her up and tickles her. He sets her down eventually and crouches to her height, looking mock serious as he asks for a dance. Sofia giggles and tugs him towards the dance floor. He blows Brad a kiss and gives a little wave as he follows her lead.

Brad never expected Ray to be good with kids. He wonders if Ray’s girlfriend wants a baby.

He watches Ray spin Sofia around before deciding he’s being creepy for staring so much. Brad runs into Kocher near the bar and finally gets treated to the hunting nephew story - he’d managed to avoid it for the entire wedding, but hey, it ends up being kind of entertaining.

 

Brad finds Ray a few hours later, sprawled out on some steps and lazily smoking. The wedding’s winding down.

“What happened to your hot date?”

“My hot date has a strict bedtime.” Ray laughs. “Fuck, dude. I’m bushed. Kids are so much work.”

Brad nods. His sister’s hellspawn are eight and twelve, respectively, and as far as he can tell their main hobbies are shooting him with water guns and ignoring basic hygiene.

“You want to grab a drink?”

 

California’s perfect tonight. Warm, but with enough of a breeze to clear away the heat. Ray declares it to be his favourite kind of weather and Brad snorts as Ray stumbles away from the cab into the bar. He throws the driver an extra twenty, doesn’t know why, and figures he must be in a generous mood if he’s actually choosing to hang out with drunk Ray Person.

Ray’s got a shit-eating grin and five shots of tequila.

“Look homes, I got us drinks.”

When Brad points out that Ray’s backwoods trailer park education failed to teach him even basic counting, Ray informs Brad that the extra shot is to account for his Viking stature and the fact that he nursed a pilsner all night like a nervous college freshman.

Brad doesn’t blink as he slams back all three in succession. Ray claps and spills tequila down his chin.

“What kind of bar is this anyway, Brad? Did you take us to a fucking gayass sports bar? I wanted a drink dude, not to listen to a bunch of middle aged investments bankers moan about their shitty fantasy football league. I can feel my brain cells dying.”

“Can’t afford to lose any more of those, Ray,” Brad says.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here. These wings are fucking expensive anyway, they don’t even have maple syrup flavour.”

They end up at a hole in the wall down the street with highballs on special and an amateur strip night. Ray’s eyes are round as saucers and he tells Brad that he’s never allowed to pick the bar again. They find a table near the back, where it’s a little quieter and talk for what seems like hours – Brad forgot how easy it is to talk to Ray. Ray asks Brad about the Royal Marines, and Brad asks him if he’s opened any concerts for Limp Bizkit lately.

“So, are you and Amy thinking of starting a little nuclear family of your own? 2.5 kids and a minivan?”

Ray stares at Brad for a long moment, suddenly sober. “Amy and I broke up.”

Brad raises an eyebrow.

“I dunno, Brad, _for reasons_. Whatever. It wasn’t gonna work out.” Ray downs the rest of his beer with a sour expression and signals a waitress.

Tab settled, Brad instinctively starts walking towards the beach. His condo’s not far from here. He regrets bringing up Amy as he notices a flask appear out of Ray’s jacket pocket. He lets Ray have a few swigs before snatching it up and chugging the last with a grimace. Ray gapes at him.

“Solves that problem,” Brad says, tone even.

Ray hiccups and attempts a glare, and the laughter spills out of Brad’s mouth, drunk and unbidden. The waves are crashing into the shore, tugging in the tide. Brad glances at Ray, who’s barely said a word since they left the bar.

“What's up with you?”

“She deserves to be happy, have a good life, y’know? She deserves better than me.” Ray speaks in a rush, his voice breaking.

They’re on the back porch of Brad’s condo and Brad’s shuffling in his pockets for keys, feeling sick as he listens to Ray beat himself up.

“Ray, you’re not—“

Ray stares up at Brad. He looks absolutely wrecked, red rimmed eyes and tie askew and worry bitten lips.

“I’m so fucking scared.”

Brad doesn’t know what Ray’s afraid of, but he finds himself crowding closer, wanting to offer comfort. Ray fists his hands in the lapels of Brad’s suit, leans against his chest and shudders. The world is swaying.

 

Brad goes back to Iraq.

The sand is older than his entire platoon combined and it’ll outlive them all.

Capt. Morel, Fick’s replacement as platoon commander, bleeds out in the desert from machine gun wounds, and there’s nothing Brad can do. Good men die.

 

“Dude, all these bridesmaids are married. Or like, Cindy Crawford-old and not in a hot way.”

Brad sees Ray again a year and a half later, at Nate and Danielle’s wedding. It’s predictably full of WASPs and Ivy Leaguers itching to be asked about their charitable work. Mike Wynn is one of Nate’s best men and he seems distinctly uncomfortable.

Ray looks like shit and Brad tells him so, except it comes out as “Christ, Ray, eat a sandwich.” Ray tells him to fuck off and actually looks a little angry. Brad shrugs.

Brad enjoyed Poke’s wedding better, but Reporter’s here and Rudy’s proudly showing him off like a prom date. He whispers to Brad conspiratorially about “Evan’s inner warrior” and something about growing winter kale in a pesticide-free environment.

Brad tells Rudy he did a good job. Reporter’s looking fit and blushing more than Nate’s new wife.

The wedding venue is a winery in Boston, faux-rustic looking. Wine all tastes the same to Brad, and if he’s drinking it, he’d prefer to be in a vineyard in California. Ray tells him this is the definition of wine-sipping communist dicksucks and Brad’s smile is genuine.

 

Walt proposes to Grace three months after Nate’s wedding. “He knocked her up and she’s supposed to be a virgin. Typical fuckin’ Walt, right?” Ray writes to him in an email.

Ray looks the worst Brad’s ever seen him. The crisp black suit hangs limply on his frame, and despite everyone else sweating in the southern sunshine, Ray shivers every now and then. He nearly fumbles the ring box when he hands it to Walt, but Grace reaches out a hand to still his shaking arm and he shoots her a wide smile.

Brad tells himself he’s not avoiding Ray – he’s just giving him space. Ray's busy being Walt’s best man, after all, shoving another flute of champagne into his hands before he even finishes the first one. Ray dances with Grace and Brad tries not to notice how Ray only makes it three quarters of the way through the song before he has to go sit down.

Brad leaves early and checks out of his hotel, catches a red-eye back to California. His hands clench and unclench the entire flight home.

 

Volunteering for BRC is a sick pleasure. Brad enjoys pushing the recruits to their absolute limits, and then some. He turns the hose on the Marines in the pool, watching them bob up and down under the force of the spray. Handing the certificates out the select few who make it through Basic Recon is a moment of pride Brad doesn’t think he’ll be forgetting anytime soon.

Brad spends Hanukkah at his parents’, goes to barbeques at Poke and Gina’s, emails Nate articles about Democrats and asks him when he’s going to get around to fixing things. He rides his R1 and acquires five more speeding tickets for his collection, which is now sitting at thirty one plus a couple invoices from the impound lot.

His skin itches and Brad feels incomplete, frustrated, in a way that he can’t name.

Walt calls him seven months after his wedding to Grace, and it’s notable as the first time Walt’s ever sounded genuinely angry.

“Why haven’t you visited him, Brad?”

 

The house is small, an old tire swing hanging from a shade tree in the front lawn. Little garden gnomes peek out from untamed rose bushes and the paint on the front door’s a little chipped, the screen door squeaky.

“Brad,” Ray says, surprised. His fingers go white on the door frame as he battles a wheezing cough, but as soon as it’s over, he’s covering it with a smile and inviting Brad inside.

The house is stifling. Ray leads him into a living room, where a portable furnace is blasting next to a couch covered in quilts. Brad shrugs off his windbreaker and sits on the edge of a sofa chair, taking in the room.

Ray awkwardly offers him a drink, covering up the unexpected visit with ingrained good southern hospitality. As Ray shuffles around the kitchen, Brad examines him. His former RTO is clad head to toe in gray long johns, finished off with a pair of fuzzy blue slippers. They’re very… Ray.

He’s all hipbones and tight angles, his eyes seem to be sinking further into his skull. His hair had been long and greasy at Walt’s wedding, and now it’s close shorn, barely a fuzz covering his head.

“Look at me homes, twenty six years old and still living with my mom. I love her homemade casserole too much. I can never leave,” Ray says, passing a glass of coke over the couch to Brad. “Actually, I guess you’ve never met my mom, you wouldn’t know. Lucky for you she’ll be off work in about twenty. I’ll charm her into making us some for dinner.”

 

Jo-Anne Person is a sharp little woman. Brad’s not afraid of much, but he thinks he could be afraid of Ray’s mother. She makes a lot of noise for someone who can’t be much over five feet, stomping in through the front door and immediately going to Ray, giving his hair a pat and a kiss. It strikes Brad as a territorial action.

Ray seems oblivious, smiling and asking his mom about her day, introducing her to his former Team Leader. Brad knew Ray was close to his mom, since she was just about the only family he had aside from his grandmother, but he never expected him to be such a literal momma’s boy.

Jo-Anne shakes Brad’s hand firmly, and Brad doesn’t think he imagines the tight, painful squeeze at the end.

“So. Bradley. What brings you to our little town?” The hard look in her eyes implies the question is more _why now?_ than anything.

“Well, ma’am,” Brad says, ignoring Ray’s smirk, “just thought I’d come visit a friend.”

Jo-Anne gives him a long, appraising look. Brad holds her eye contact, unwilling to back down. Finally, Jo-Anne makes a harrumphing noise and shoos them out of the kitchen, telling Ray to go set up the guest bedroom. She calls him “Joshua Ray” and Ray tells Brad to shut up as soon as they’re out of earshot.

The guest room is at the end of a short hallway, walls littered with photos of Ray at every age. Ray swings open a closet door and hands a pile of sheets to Brad.

“Marine, I want those corners tight enough to bounce a quarter off of.”

Brad mock salutes in reply. Ray stands off to the side and smirks as Brad unfolds the NASCAR printed sheets, and Brad stays silent until the bed’s tucked tight and ready for inspection. Ray leans down, peering at each corner, miming writing on a notepad.

“Well, ma’am,” Ray begins, his voice high pitched. Brad rolls his eyes and gives him a playful punch to the arm.

Things don’t go as planned. Ray stumbles backwards on impact, descending into a coughing fit and collapsing to the ground. Brad pushes down the feeling of panic and scrambles to pick Ray up – he’s so light, every bone discernable against Brad’s fingertips despite Ray’s thick sweater, the wracking coughs making him rattle.

Jo-Anne comes rushing into the room, shoving Brad aside to cradle her son. Brad doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until she stares up at him and tells him to go boil a pot of water.

 

After dinner, Brad and Ray sit on the porch swing in the backyard. Brad keeps a comfortable distance from Ray, not trusting himself. Brad’s angry – angry at himself for not noticing how frail Ray had become, angry at Ray for no particular reason. He wants to blame Ray for the way he is, but knows he can’t.

“Why’d your mom make me boil water?”

Ray puffs his cigarette thoughtfully. “She does that when people want to help but don’t know what to do. I think it’s an old midwife trick.”

“Those are gonna kill you,” Brad says, staring pointedly at the cigarette. Ray’s been smoking almost non-stop since Brad arrived.

Ray stares at him like an idiot and Brad coughs awkwardly, realizing. They lapse into silence.

“Ray,” Brad says slowly, “I’m sorry.”

Ray waves him off. “I’m fine, dude. It’s not your fault, stop looking at me like someone’s about to shoot your dog. I just inhaled too much dust from you whipping around those ancient NASCAR sheets.”

“Those things are hideous.”

Ray smirks. “I knew you’d like ‘em, Brad.”

Brad reaches out, gently touching where he’d hit Ray earlier. Ray shivers and leans away.

“We should go inside. It’s cold. Plus, we’ve got shit to do tomorrow.”

Brad listens to the sound of Ray’s coughing from the couch down the hall and Jo-Anne’s loud snoring next door. He sleeps fitfully, and dreams things he can’t remember in the morning.

 

Tomorrow becomes four days. Ray and Jo-Anne are too polite to ask Brad how long he’s staying, though Brad notes that Ray’s mom doesn’t seem to have warmed up to him at all. Ray’s pretty limited in what he can do and he tires easily, but he continues to act like nothing’s changed. Brad still feels angry.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t have a plan. There is no sitrep for crashing at Ray’s mom’s house. All Brad knows is that Amy left Ray almost three years ago, and he doesn’t want to do that. He wants to be the one who stays.

Eventually, Brad loses track of how many nights he’s spent sleeping on Ray’s old NASCAR sheets, how many of Jo-Anne’s casseroles he’s eaten seconds of. Time doesn’t matter anyway, really, all that matters is making the time they have count.

 

Ray’s birthday is in two days. Brad’s invited all of Bravo, everyone who served with Ray in ’03. Ray doesn’t know about it and Brad’s fingers are crossed that Saturday is going to be one of Ray’s “good days.”

Jo-Anne explained good days and bad days to Brad once, one morning over coffee while Ray was still asleep, but Brad didn’t really need those to be explained.

The bad days are when he tells Brad to fuck off and doesn’t smile. The good days are when he’s in the mood for Waffle House for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They don’t even have to look at the menu anymore, they’ve both got it memorized. The thing is, Jo-Anne failed to tell him about the worst days. The worst days are when Brad wakes up to find Ray asleep on the couch, his body so still that for a moment Brad thinks—

But Ray doesn’t know about those days.

 

“I want a girl with a short skirt and a lo-o-ng jacket.” Ray grins at Brad, and Brad sighs. Based on the way Ray is insistently waving his fingers in front of Brad’s face, it’s his cue to turn the radio up.

Ray makes a triumphant noise and continues singing.

“I want a girl who wakes me up with a blowjob,” mutters Brad.

Ray laughs.

“Me too, homes. Me too.”

The doorbell rings and Ray narrows his eyes. “That better be a fucking mariachi band singing me happy birthday and not a clown. I hate clowns.”

It’s not a clown, it’s Walt, but Brad knew that one already. Ray turns into an octopus and wraps himself around Walt, genuinely excited. Walt seems happy to see Ray too, and they hug for an uncomfortable length of time until Brad clears his throat.

Throughout the rest of the morning, more First Recon members continue to trickle in, surprising Ray. He doesn’t seem to clue in to the fact that it’s becoming a party until he looks around and says “shit, my mom’s gonna be so mad.” Everyone laughs and Brad lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in.

The catering company shows up at eleven, with everything ready to go just before lunch. Lunch is, predictably, waffles. Ray’s positively beaming.

Brad stays to the fringes, letting everyone else spend time with Ray. He tries to relax. Nate corners him at one point, his expression soft as he puts a hand on Brad’s shoulder.

“You’re a good friend, Brad. Giving this day to Ray was the most important gift you could give him, at this point.”

If anyone notices Brad retreating to the guest room and scrubbing at his eyes, they don’t say anything. Brad doesn’t want to think about Nate Fick and whatever _“at this point”_ was supposed to mean. Brad keeps his distance from Nate for the rest of the party.

The cake has gross buttercream frosting, but it’s Ray’s favourite. Ray stares at Walt as he grabs a large slice with his hand and shoves it into his mouth, smearing it all over his face.

“Have I mentioned you’re a fucking messed up hick?” Walt says.

 

Hospitals are Brad’s least favourite place on earth. Ray likes to spend his free time in the children’s ward, reading stories and being an idiot for the entertainment of six year olds. Ray loves all the things Brad doesn’t – weddings, children, and country music.

“He’d be a great father,” Jo-Anne says. She leans against his shoulder for a half second before remembering their silent Cold War of wills, and walks off to sit next to a stack of magazines. Brad stands stiffly, as if someone placed him here and forgot to move him, watching Ray make everyone around him smile.

 

Brad moves into a motel room when Ray transfers full time into the palliative care unit, uncomfortable with the idea of being alone in a house with Jo-Anne Person. Their relationship has reached a stalemate, but it’s tempered by the knowledge that they’re both here for the same reason. There’s an unspoken visiting schedule.

“Ray, I don’t want to watch Independence Day again.”

“It’s the funniest movie of all time,” Ray retorts. “Randy Quaid plays the exact same character as in Christmas Vacation. It has fucking Data from Star Trek, man.” Confident he’s won the argument, Ray leans back in the hospital bed and presses play. He pats a spot on the bed next to him, winking at Brad.

 _Fuck it,_ Brad thinks. He’s got a cramp in his neck from slouching in too-small waiting room chairs. He squeezes in next to Ray on the bed. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but it’s an improvement from the chair.

Ray falls asleep on Brad’s shoulder by the time they get to Area 51 and Brad flicks off the television. The room’s silent, save for the sound of Ray sleeping. Each exhale sounds a little wet, as if something inside Ray is drowning and struggling for air. Gently, Brad moves his right arm to tug the blanket up a little higher on Ray, who murmurs something unintelligible against the skin of Brad’s neck and huddles closer.

Brad sits stock still, blinking in the darkness until morning comes.

 

The obituary lists him as “Joshua Ray Person” and Brad likes to think for a moment that someone else has died. He doesn’t know a Joshua Ray. He doesn’t know people who die at twenty-seven in hospital bed in Missouri instead of a desert in the Middle East. He only knows warriors.

Brad knows Ray, who sang songs in the middle of a war. Ray, who eats like a slob on purpose to make Walt forget the things he can’t change. Ray, who loves blueberry waffles with cinnamon sugar and always tells the middle-aged waitress Cindy that she’s the most beautiful woman in the state. Ray, who’s great with kids and would be an even better father. Ray, who makes Brad smile.

Brad only knows warriors. He only knows Ray.

 

The funeral is on a Wednesday and Brad sits next to Jo-Anne, who reaches over to hold his hand three minutes in and doesn’t let go for the rest of the service. Everything is wrong. The sky is so blue and the weather is warm, with just enough breeze to keep it this side of hot. It’s Ray’s favourite kind of weather, he told Brad that once. He should be here to enjoy it.

Brad tugs out the kerchief from his suit pocket, holds it out for Jo-Anne, and tries not to squeeze her hand too hard.

Jo-Anne hugs Brad for a long time after the ceremony’s over, her big black hat tickling his chin as she grips his middle tightly. He brushes away the taffeta scratching at his skin and awkwardly pats her on the back.

“He loved you, so much,” she says. “You’re his best friend, Brad.”

Brad doesn’t bother staying around the plot to watch the cemetery employees back fill the dirt with a noisy Caterpillar.

 

The car rental office down the street from his hotel is frigid and air-conditioned. After living around Ray, who always needed a couple extra layers and a furnace regardless of the heat outside, Brad’s not used to the chill. He rents a red pickup truck.

His first stop is the liquor store, then a gas station due to a sudden inexplicable hunger for pepperoni sticks. He asks the attendant where the best place to swim is and writes the directions down on the back of a napkin. Due to a lifetime around the ocean, the local swimming hole seems less like a lake and more like a swamp, but the water’s clear and cool. Brad strips down to his boxers and dives in, surfacing only when his lungs begin to burn and his chest aches.

Brad doesn’t know what he believes in. Ray’s gone. Yet here, in the middle of a summer’s day in Missouri, with a stupid country music station playing from the truck, he’s never felt closer to him.


End file.
